


Midnight Becomes You

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: Children's Classics with a Johnlock Twist [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 02:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Cindersherlock longs to dance with Prince John at the Valentine’s Ball. But what will happen when Mrs. Hudson’s magic wears off at midnight?





	Midnight Becomes You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prune_Cobbler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prune_Cobbler/gifts).



> Written as a combined response to the Sherlock Challenge February prompt — Midnight — and the H.I.A.T.U.S. February theme — Valentine’s Day.

Once upon a time, there was a young genius named Sherlock, who lived with his Wicked Step-Mummy and Pompous Step-Brother. Sherlock’s step-mother was horribly cruel — forcing him to do unspeakable things, like eat regular meals, and go to bed every single night, whether he was tired or not. His step-brother was even worse — taunting Sherlock with claims that he, Mycroft, was the smart one. 

 

Sherlock bore up under these torments as well as he could. He spent his time conducting experiments, many of which resulted in spectacular explosions. Unfortunately, this only encouraged his step-brother to tease him even more mercilessly. Because Sherlock was so frequently dusted over with ash, Mycroft took to calling him Cindersherlock, in a hatefully mocking tone. Eventually, his Wicked Step-Mummy joined in, and the name stuck.

 

Sherlock grew into a handsome young man, but no one would have known it to look at him. In fact, the name Cindersherlock was quite fitting, as he was generally covered in a layer of soot, with his singed clothes hanging off his lean frame in tattered rags. Mycroft, on the other hand, was extremely particular about his appearance, and took great pride in being fashionably dressed and meticulously groomed.

 

One day, a herald rode through town bearing a royal proclamation. The queen had decided it was time for her son, Prince John, to wed. In order to find a spouse for him, she would be hosting a ball at the palace on Saint Valentine’s Day, and all of the eligible young people in the kingdom were invited to attend. 

 

Sherlock was delighted by this news. He loved dancing nearly as much as he loved experiments, and he had always had a great curiosity to see the prince, who was rumoured to be exceptionally attractive. When he spoke his enthusiasm aloud, however, he was met with nothing but scorn.

 

“You? Attend the ball? Certainly not!” declared his Wicked Step-Mummy. “You haven’t the faintest notion of how to behave appropriately in public. You would bring shame upon this family.”

 

“And just look at you!” added his Pompous Step-Brother. “You can’t show up at the palace dressed like that! You haven’t a single stitch of clothing that isn’t torn or burnt or stained with foul-smelling chemicals. They’d never let you past the gates.”

 

Sherlock was bitterly disappointed. He longed to attend the ball, but his step-mother was adamant in her refusal. She planned to have Mycroft marry the prince, and she had no intention of allowing Cindersherlock to stand in the way.

 

When Saint Valentine’s Day arrived, Sherlock watched forlornly as his Wicked Step-Mummy escorted Mycroft — in a brand-new bespoke suit — to their carriage, and drove away. As he stood contemplating what he should blow up to distract himself from his disappointment, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, he found an unfamiliar old woman gazing up at him kindly.

 

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Hudson.”

 

“Did my step-mother hire you to look after things while she’s away?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Oh, no, dear. I’m not your housekeeper. I’m your Fairy Godmother.” 

 

_Fairy Godmother!_ Sherlock had heard of such beings, but never thought he’d meet one. His mind began to whir with a million questions, but only one popped out of his mouth:

 

“Could you help me get to the ball?”

 

“Of course, dear. That’s why I’m here. Go and clean yourself up, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

 

Sherlock hurried to do as he was bid. In a few minutes he was back in front of Mrs. Hudson, face and hands freshly scrubbed, but clothes still filthy and bedraggled.

 

“Hmm…” she said, turning him this way and that, “let me see…”

 

With a flick of her wand, Mrs. Hudson transformed his shabby garments. Sherlock looked down at himself in wonder. He was now clad in a tight-fitting purple shirt of the finest silk, and a pair of black trousers that showed off his assets to perfection.

 

“Very becoming,” Mrs. Hudson said approvingly. “But I must do something about your hair. It’s a complete rats’ nest.”

 

“They’re not rats; they’re mice. It’s an experiment.”

 

“Well, it won’t do for the ball.” 

 

Mrs. Hudson waved her wand, and six white mice scurried out of Sherlock’s curls, leaving his hair artfully tousled. With another flick of the wand, she transformed the mice into six fine horses. Then, pointing her wand at the largest of Sherlock’s experimental pumpkins, she turned it into a carriage. 

 

“This will take you to the ball in style,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And you’re sure to be the most handsome man there — with the possible exception of the prince himself. But remember, you must leave the palace before midnight, for at the final stroke of the clock, this magic will wear off.”

 

Sherlock was closely examining one of the carriage horses, and didn’t respond.

 

“Are you listening to me?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

 

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied, mind already miles away. He hopped into the carriage and took up the reins. The horses were in motion before he remembered to call back, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

 

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she watched him drive away. _Well, I’ve done what I can,_ she told herself.

 

…

 

By the time Sherlock reached the palace, the Valentine’s Ball was in full swing — with one notable exception. All day, a parade of hopeful parents had been introducing their sons and daughters to Prince John, but although he greeted each one politely, none had caught his fancy, and he refused to dance. While hundreds of elegantly dressed couples waltzed around him, the prince stood stiffly to the side, unmoved.

 

The moment Sherlock entered the ballroom, everything changed. Prince John’s eyes lit upon him, and he strode across the room, unwilling to wait for a proper introduction. Holding out his hand, he asked, “May I have this dance?”

 

Sherlock placed his hand in Prince John’s and allowed himself to be led to the dance floor. As scores of jealous young ladies and gentlemen looked on, Prince John pulled Sherlock into his arms. The two might have been alone in the palace, for all the notice they paid to anyone but each other.

 

For nearly an hour, both Sherlock and the prince were rendered speechless — too enamoured to do more than gaze into each other’s eyes as they waltzed around the room. Eventually, though, Prince John regained his composure enough to say, “Might I have the privilege of knowing your name?”

 

For some reason, this struck Sherlock as hilarious, and he began to laugh. His mirth was contagious, and Prince John let out an unexpected giggle in response. Soon the two of them collapsed against each other, boneless and breathless with laughter. Amidst the scandalised stares of the other dancers, they stumbled together out of the ballroom.

 

Prince John dragged Sherlock through a maze of corridors and finally out into the privacy of the palace grounds. The cool night air helped to sober them.

 

Once Sherlock had caught his breath, he said, “I’m Sherlock, but everyone calls me Cindersherlock, because I’m so often covered in soot from my scientific experiments.”

 

Prince John looked him up and down. “Well, you do clean up rather nicely. But a bit of soot seems a small price to pay for the ability to conduct your own research. I’d love to hear all about it.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Oh, yes! I think science is fascinating.”

 

Thrilled to have someone express an interest in his work, Sherlock began to describe his latest experiments. Prince John was an ideal listener. He paid rapt attention, occasionally asking an insightful question or making Sherlock blush by gasping out “brilliant!” or “amazing!”

 

 

Sherlock was so caught up in his conversation with Prince John that he forgot all about Mrs. Hudson’s warning that her magic would wear off at midnight. Only when he heard the first chime from the bell tower did her words come back to him.

 

Grabbing both of Prince John’s hands, Sherlock asked urgently, “Did you really mean it when you said you wouldn’t mind if my clothes were tattered and covered with ash from my experiments?”

 

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. I don’t care about your clothes — I care about you.”

 

“Good. Because at the final stroke of midnight, you’re going to see what I usually look like.”

 

Sherlock and Prince John held hands, waiting as the clock chimed again and again. When the bell rang out for the twelfth time, the magical garments Mrs. Hudson had conjured up did, indeed, vanish. But they were not replaced by Sherlock’s own shabby shirt and trousers. Instead, he was left standing completely naked, clothed only in the light from the full moon.

 

Prince John gazed at him in open wonder. Then he began to sing:

 

_“Midnight becomes you, it goes with your hair_  
_You certainly know the right thing to wear_  
  
_Midnight becomes you, I'm thrilled at the sight_  
 _And I could get so romantic tonight_  
  
_When I say, “I love you,” I want you to know_  
 _It's not just because it’s midnight, although_  
 _Midnight becomes you so.”_

 

“Do you mean it?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Every word,” John assured him.

 

Sherlock hesitated only a moment before confessing, “I love you, too.”

 

John beamed at him. “Will you marry me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

…

 

And so Prince John and Sherlock were wed — in proper attire, of course — and they lived happily ever after.

 

_The End_

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic — and the song John sings to Sherlock — is a slightly altered version of [Moonlight Becomes You](https://youtu.be/E9dDluJlll8), which Bing Crosby sings to Dorothy Lamour in the 1942 film Road to Morocco. 
> 
> Kind comments and kudos make me live happily ever after. ♥


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